am i the wolf or the savior?
is my smile too sharp or just my teeth?
is my smile too sharp or just my teeth?
There are many good things about this morning, and he would iterate them along the same lines that Danta’s internal thoughts land. He settles precisely in his arms despite how the hair is tugged from his face, far longer now than it had been when he’d first come back. And in lieu of trusting anyone enough with it, it’s grown past his shoulders now, a mane that he’s managed to keep under control. Except when sacked out as he had been, or when sedatives seem the vibe for the night.
“I adore waking up to the imagery of you wielding blades near my face.” He hums with a playful tug of a smirk, flashing pale and sharp teeth at the Maverick. His own hand lifts, slipping up to caress his cheek in turn, fingertips carding through the rays of gold just above the shaved portion of hair.
The butcher very quickly realizes he’s the shadow to the Maverick in more ways than one. Danta is the golden sunflare, the fire that burns so brightly and so swiftly, chaos and beauty wrapped into one, so bright it almost hurts to witness. And in comparison? The butcher is the oil slick night, the foggy evenings that make the world seem so small, that fill the air with such heavy dread that one would choke if not careful.
Two sides of the same coin, at the end of the day.
“I slept as if I had died for a portion of my slumber.” He says before his mind can run away with more poetics. “How did you sleep?” He asks, thumb brushing against the high arch of his cheekbone.
“I adore waking up to the imagery of you wielding blades near my face.” He hums with a playful tug of a smirk, flashing pale and sharp teeth at the Maverick. His own hand lifts, slipping up to caress his cheek in turn, fingertips carding through the rays of gold just above the shaved portion of hair.
The butcher very quickly realizes he’s the shadow to the Maverick in more ways than one. Danta is the golden sunflare, the fire that burns so brightly and so swiftly, chaos and beauty wrapped into one, so bright it almost hurts to witness. And in comparison? The butcher is the oil slick night, the foggy evenings that make the world seem so small, that fill the air with such heavy dread that one would choke if not careful.
Two sides of the same coin, at the end of the day.
“I slept as if I had died for a portion of my slumber.” He says before his mind can run away with more poetics. “How did you sleep?” He asks, thumb brushing against the high arch of his cheekbone.
Astaroth
come a little closer
